BANISHMENT 12: Standing in Close Proximity to Strangers

Tonight, thanks to Handsome Thunder’s Valentine’s genius, I had the very special experience of going to see the Avett Brothers at the Murat Egyptian Room in Indianapolis. If you are the kind of person who drinks obscene amounts of coffee, loves mandolins, pipes, and very skilled whistling, you are probably sitting in front of your computer right now seething with jealousy. The Avett Brothers are better than being an eight-year-old and getting a snow day due to potential onslaught of seriously cold flurries. In other words, the Avett Brothers are wonderful. They are classy. They are the kind of men who wear bowties and look like they should have been born in an English library. Their beards are fantastically well groomed and could beat a King Charles Cavalier at Westminster.

And while the Avett Brothers are the bees knees, the Murat Egyptian Room is not. Rather, it’s kegger land for Indie kids who grew up eating unhealthy amounts of corn. There are no seats, five bars, and at least 12,000 good reasons to continually be applying hand sanitizer.  Handsome Thunder and our group of really fantastic looking friends showed up decently early. We got a spot in the mass of humanity, roughly fifteen rows back, and were pretty pleased with our body-to-Avett-Brother-distance. The only problem was the conglomerate of Intoxicated Indianites to our left. They were egregiously tall men, hobbit like women, and continually full hands of beer. I immediately wanted to decapitate them.

Unfortunately, as my father and mother did pass some morals on through the genetic line, I didn’t decapitate the Intoxicated Indianites but rather stood beside them and looked at them as one might a peculiar monkey that has started growing bright fuchsia hair on its bum. While I’ve seen numerous people act in numerous fashions, I am somehow still always shocked to see what some people consider to be socially acceptable. Appalling, my dear Watson. 

The Avett Brothers finally appeared and in this drunken swaying mob of mandolin loving hipsters, we were standing by the most severely indiscrete assholes that had ever entered the Egyptian Room. Whenever songs began, they transformed immediately into bobblehead dolls that pumped their fists in the air as though this weren’t a folk concert but a UFC fight. They sent their hobbit sized girlfriends on beer runs who always came back, squeezing their way indelicately through the mass, and always leaving their smell on my corduroy jacket. They sang obnoxiously loud, requested songs that didn’t even exist, and blocked everyone’s vision within a 10 mile radius.

While I love the Avett Brothers and Handsome Thunder for getting me tickets, for lent I entirely give up standing in close proximity to strangers. In particular, Intoxicated Indianites. They smell rank, dance weird, and are unpopularly tall.

BANISHMENT 11: Grocery Shopping at 3 PM

Today I opened the refrigerator. This is always an interesting experience because I can never remember exactly what I left there. Every morning it turns into “Let’s Make a Deal” in my kitchen. What’s behind door number two? Perhaps a treasure chest of lamb chops and indecently tasty tangerines? Or will it be curdling milk and thoroughly rotted tomatoes?

This morning, however, The Deal was very boring. The ketchup was sitting with the eggs making fun of the orange juice that was all but empty. The rest of the shelves were pretty naked, save a package of tortellini and some sweet and sour sauce I got from the Chinese Dragon about 3 months ago. It was certainly time for some food remodeling. So this afternoon when I was out running errands, going to UPS and doing all sorts of other popular business things, I decided heck, why not, let’s go ahead and swing by that ole grocery store and stock up.

I don’t know if you are at all like me in your grocery shopping habits, but I find I rarely enter the land of carts and produce unless its post-5 or official weekend. Going during the day just feels peculiar. Like I’m on vacation at the beach and must remember to swing by Aisle 3 to pick up more sunscreen.

When I walked into the grocery store today, something automatically felt off. As though I was walking into the wrong-gender bathroom. It took a second for the peculiarity to register, and then, upon realization, I became thoroughly embarrassed and wanted to crawl into the tiles for dear life. Unbeknownst to me, I had entered the land of the elderly.

I wish, at that point in time, I had a large pad of paper, a pen, and at least 30 spare minutes. I would have bolted the doors shut and walked to every grocery-store inhabitant, polling their age. Kroger Census 3:00 PM. I would have determined, blindfolded, that the median lifespan of coupon-clipping, cart-pushing, milk-guzzling shoppers was 97 and three quarters. It was grocery store “rest period” and no one under the age of 80 was allowed in the aisles. 

My grocery store excursion, which was so small that it only required a hand-held basket, was elongated thanks to Wrinkle Invasion 2010. Gray haired grannies were apparently never taught the standard grocery store etiquette. I don’t care if you are eighty-seven and a relative of Betsy Ross. You cannot turn your cart horizontal, press your buttocks up against the Raisin Bran and spend five minutes trying to decide between original and brown sugar oatmeal. You are blocking the path and that is an automatic foodie foul. Additionally, it seems as though legislation must be passed that does not allow the elderly to operate the self checkout lane. Precious though they be, entire centuries pass as they attempt to locate the bar code on their Vaseline.

While I love old people with all of my heart, I’d rather play Poker with them than but heads over heads of lettuce. I will never ever dare to grocery shop during the day again. It is the horrendously scary territory of slow motion and those who enter will likely come out as gray chain smokers who never heard that cigarettes cause cancer. And death.

BANISHMENT 10: People Who Use Their Cell Phones Whilst on Public Toilets

I was in Panera today working. This happens a lot because they have free wifi and bagels that involve asiago cheese. After a couple of hours and far too much coffee, I found myself in need of the ladies room and left my editing to hang out with the soups and sandwiches while I went to squat above the glory that is and will always be public toilets.

I was minding my own business in Tinkle Town, somewhere between the squat and expert foot flush, when all of a sudden, from the other side of the metal door, I heard a very unexpected phrase: "Thank you."

This puzzled me immediately. Why was this peeing stranger thanking me? I hadn't so much as passed toilet tissue underneath our adjoining stalls.

But my confusion was quickly rectified when the conversation continued without me.

"Well, you know Fran (and yes, she actually said Fran), you just have to put your foot down. You have to tell them this was the deal from the beginning and they have to uphold their end of the bargain."

And then there was a lot of mmm hmmming.
Hmm. Yes, yes. Hmmm. I understand.

I was appalled. My name was not Fran. She was not telling me to put my foot down. Peeing Stranger had to be participating in the cardinal sin of public bathrooms: she was talking on the phone.

I don't know about you, but the thought of having a nice little chat on the tele while I'm doing my business is a little grotesque. There is all that flushing and swirling and release of bodily fluids. I don't want my friends or colleagues to know what it sounds like when my lunch comes out my opposite end. And I most certainly don't want Peeing Strangers' friends to know whether or not I was going #1 or #2.

With all expediency I did the foot flush, washed my hands, and exited the bathroom. I was afraid, should I linger any longer, that I'd be tempted to send her cellular device down the commode with her whiz, pulling a Jackie Chan kick in of the stall door. Next time I doubt I'll be so kind.

BANISHMENT 9: The Belief that Sexy Men Don't Go #2

I have always had an issue with pretty boys. Sexy men. Ridiculously good-looking members of the opposite sex. They have this uncanny perfection that makes me believe they dry clean their socks and began flossing as early as their second trimester in the womb. I imagine they only grocery shop at Whole Foods and possess breath, regardless of pepper or onion intake, that tastes continually of wintermint gum. They always frighten me with their stud-like composition and I whimper back into my corner to brush my teeth, three times daily, like all normal human beings who suffer from bad breath syndrome.

Harry Connick Jr. is the ultimate of pretty boys. He has the kind of hair you see women swinging about in Pantene Pro-V commercials. He wears Gucci and Armani and can tell you the virtues of two-button, three-button, and four-button suits. And then he sings Ray Charles in a way that immediately makes you want to take said suits off him. He is suave. He is debonair. But then he does a remarkable thing: he talks.

I don’t know if you’ve ever carried on a conversation with Harry Connick Jr., but I am certain only one phrase could describe him after: cataclysmic goofball. When I saw him last night at the Ryman, he did seal jumps in the air. He spent most of the night perfecting his gay voice, while dancing awkwardly to grandfather tunes. It was fantastic, it was wonderful, and it made me realize something shocking: sexy men are humans, too.

At no point after the show did I wonder whether or not Harry’s breath tasted like mint. I was certain walking in front of it would be akin to walking by a Mexican Grille. And underneath that nicely ironed designer shirt was probably a beer gut in hibernation, waiting for couch and WHO DAT time to break out the bulge. Not to mention the mismatched socks that were likely incased in his shined leather loafers.

Despite popular rumor, ridiculously good looking members of the opposite sex are only a slightly evolved brand of the traditional male. They, too, belch, run red lights, leave gum wrappers in inappropriate public places and, most importantly, go #2 in the toilet. Thanks to Harry, I’m no longer scared of the sexy man breed. I mean, seriously. Who be scared of anyone who has purchased Febreeze in bulk?

BANISHMENT 8: Christmas Lights in February

This has been a big year for me in a number of ways, but personal fireworks have largely shot off in grand gesture because this is the first year I have lived alone. All years leading up to now I have been stowed away with a handful of roommates who do things like take all the hot water and eat my Cheerios. But this time around, I chalked up the nerve and said, “Room for one please,” and then put down a fat wad of cash to rent half of a house. At the time, I thought this was a superb idea. I thought I was moving up in the world. But when you rent half of a house, don’t kid yourself. You’re not renting freedom; you’re renting a new set of parents.

The thing about renting in general is that you will always have a landlord. And that landlord will always have a personality that makes you want to grate their heart into small shreds of cheese. The last landlord I had was a repressed gay in his mid forties who buried his mother’s hair underneath our impeccably bricked driveway. My current landlords, though terribly sweet at heart, are parental folk who treat me as though I’m a five-year-old who just stole five million dollars from their khaki pockets. I get emails from them most every day. Or knocks on the door. And while I smile and nod and pretend like we will soon bake a keish together, what I really want to do is scream at them and tell them I’m a book editor, not a drug lord. I trade tips on grammar, not sexual favors. If they think I’m loud and unruly, they should probably either soundproof the walls or rent the portioned off third of their house to the Vanderbilt coma ward.

And while this personal interaction of any landlord-tenant relationship is often trying, it’s the unspoken land of common territory that really fingernails the chalkboard for me. Shared space is where both parties stake equal claim in representation, but more often than not, one party bowls the other over. It’s like being a divorced parent trying to raise a lovely child, only to leave for the weekend and come back to find five piercings, a facial tattoo, and an indisputable enrollment in the U.S. army. How do you explain that at parent-teacher conferences? Yes, I’m sorry. But that half of my child is my ex-husband’s fault.

I feel pretty much that exact way about my front lawn. While most of the time I think my house is pretty adorable and picket fence like – it’s white with nice little columns, a porch swing, and a green front door – I do take issue with the small matter of my landlord’s “holiday syndrome” which appears to all onlookers as my “holiday syndrome.” There is not a day of the year where our lawn does not celebrate the slaughter of a turkey, the kiss of cupid, or the dashing speed of Donner.  Our Bermuda no longer thinks its grass, but rather the landing spot for overly priced figurines. 

Currently, we find ourselves in February. Somewhere between hearts and leprechauns. And while this should mean that our house should only boast things like shutters and door knobs, we have instead adopted the redneck display of a continued Christmas. Lights strung like popcorn all around our columned porch. As a result, and quite without my permission, I have become The Girl with Christmas Lights in February. I’m sure this would be fine and all if I were the kind of person who thought stringing snowflake-shaped lights at any time of year was socially acceptable. But I am not into lights shaped like anything but bulbs. And I certainly don’t think people should illuminate their homes like theme parks unless it’s strictly the time of year post-turkey, pre-Santa.

This year for lent if I could, I would put to rest our dabbling in holiday décor and stick to more sensible arrangements like well cut grass and freshly painted walls.  But joint custody being what it is, I fear for the next 6 months I’m doomed to break bread with lawn ornaments while watching drivers by stop, point, and whisper.

BANISHMENT 7: The 'I'm Fine' Complex

So today I was talking on the phone to Handsome Thunder. We have this tradition where he calls me on his way home from work and we talk about things like the value of corndogs to the American spirit, how Olympic-like we are at Nerf basketball, and, of course, the importance of the protestant reformation.

We were having a lovely conversation sans awkward pauses when all of a sudden something rubbed me the wrong way. Straight away, my voice got very distant, as though I was whispering all the way from Serbia, and instead of laughing and/or arguing voluptuously as I had throughout the entire conversation, I began answering his questions in short stubs. Lincoln logs of sentences that were not particularly sturdy or sincere.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, immediately sensing that I had departed the Land of Jolly for the Island of Crappy Mood.

And while this question gave me plenty of time and room to say what I actually thought, I instead thought it would be wiser to commit the cardinal sin of femaledom:

“Nothing,” I replied. “I’m fine.”

For some reason, pretty much every woman I know has the same genetic defect. We have unreasonably high, peculiar expectations, and we believe that everyone who surrounds us, particularly our significant others, should be mind readers. We expect them to understand without us ever having to talk. I suppose we think our neurotic minds are very simple and that our body language and tone says it all. But the truth is, the female mind is often more windy than a game of Shoots and Ladders. And men, bless their hearts, don’t work in pastels. They just want the primary colors.

Let me put it this way. Men/women relationships are pretty much like Christopher Columbus on his first exploration. He didn’t have a map. No one really told him where he was going. So when his ship hit ground, he claimed he was exactly where he was supposed to be: India. Had someone simply told him that India was the total opposite direction, he could have remedied the fault. As it were, he was merely thousands and thousands of miles off. 

Men, poor dear things, are found all too often in similar situations. Take, for instance, Ted. He was on a grand, courageous expedition to make a woman happy and so he tried to do something sweet for her by buying her flowers.  This would have of course been a romantic, winsome gesture if it weren’t for the fact that her former fiancé had died of a peculiar allergy to roses. How quickly the “good guy” becomes the “insensitive bastard.” 

I don’t really say this as a quip on my own sex without completely hurling myself into the pot of evil femaledom. Handsome Thunder will vouch that there is not a single person in this world who is better at passive aggressive behavior and unrealistic expectations than yours truly. It’s really almost Guinness World Record worthy how long I can be mad at someone for breaking a promise they never even knew about.   

However, as I sat on the phone this time huffing and puffing and casting my grudge in gold, I realized he wasn’t being the ridiculous one – I was. How in the world was he supposed to know what had ruffled my feathers?

I immediately, if not slightly begrudgingly, apologized, said I was not fine, and then told him what had made me momentarily visit Serbia in my conversational tone.

And do you know what Handsome Thunder said in return to my confession? Females, you will probably need to sit down for this one. And perhaps rent an oxygen tank.

"Thank you for telling me."

(Insert large, joyous ringing of bells here.)

I realize, very much, that I am still female. And that the “No, I’m fine” button will always be more accessible than the Staples’ Easy Button. But when one can get “Thank you for telling me’s,” rather than sleepless nights of anger about absolutely nothing, I cannot help but wonder who the fairer of the sexes is after all.

BANISHMENT 6: My Youthful Indiscretion

There are some people I know who are exceptionally good at being adults. They’ve pretty much been advanced human beings since they were seven or eight when they started asking their parents for 401K investments rather than Beanie Babies.  They own houses by now. They own children. They own mustaches and family portraits from Olan Mills. The only truly adult thing I’ve owned so far is an ulcer from drinking too much coffee. 

Right now, I’m twenty-four years old. I will be twenty-five next month which means I’ve hit the tier where I can get discounted rates on car rentals and can check the 25-40 box on questionnaires, the second tier up (!). I will go to the DMV and get a new license. I will stop using the phrase, “That is so money.” I will also probably have to stop putting my name on Christmas presents my parents buy relatives.

Up until now, I have worried very little about what it means to be an adult. I have been self-employed or a workhorse at nonprofits, which means I probably could have saved more money if I spent the past five years working at McDonalds. When I’ve been upset, I’ve bought plane tickets rather than ice cream. I thought 401k referred to batting averages.

But this is the year everything changed. It started small. First, I began a gift-wrap storage box where I house things like bows and wrapping paper. This is the quintessential domestic move that all women must make. It means: Yes, from here on out I will ribbon and tassel all of my gifts and will not call my mother or Macys to do it for me. After the gift wrap box, I bought a coffee pot. And after the coffee pot, I bought silverware. And we’re not talking silverware from Target that you can throw in the lake at a picnic and laugh about later while purchasing more disposable silverware. It is the nice kind of silverware you can use at dinner parties and family reunions, if you’re into that sort of thing. It all matches. And is clean. And doesn’t look like you inherited it from your Uncle Barney’s fishing chest.

After the silverware came the dentist. I relinquished my childhood tooth man and found one of my own, an essential move in taking off the medical training wheels. Then after the dentist came the lasagna – the ability to cook a meal that does not go directly from box to microwave to mouth. It proved that I too, despite my taste buds limited experience, could hodgepodge a bunch of random edible items together and make them warm and tasty and better than physical contact with the opposite sex.

After the lasagna, came the furniture. The chair and couch that I did not buy off a dying relative or a shady man on Craiglist. I bought it from a store. A nice store that has floors as bright as Crest Whitening Strips. The furniture is classy and friendly and smells like new, expensive, investment fabric. But all of that is child’s play compared to what I did today.

This morning I Googled the letters “IRA” and I wasn’t searching for news on Ira Glass or the Irish Republican Army. I was looking up retirement funds.  I was trying to figure out the difference between Roth IRAs and Traditional IRAs since I didn’t learn this in college when I was reading about the drinking habits of fantastically emotional British writers. After serious investigation, I took a fancy to Roths and signed myself for a future on the British Isles by handing over a little green to ING. And small amount though it was, I sort of feel like baking myself a celebration cake that reads, in funfetti icing, Welcome to Adulthood!

I realize most of you reading this (if anyone actually does read this) are probably far ahead of me by now. You are the 401k over Beanie Baby conglomerate that makes my accomplishments of silverware and gift-wrap storage boxes nearly obsolete.

But today I will pretend like you don’t exist and that my pre-25 accomplishments are worth a Nobel Prize.  After all, I’m thinking Obama, giver that he is, might go halfsies with me.

BANISHMENT 5: Thinking I will save the world through showers

I pretty much have the same routine every morning. This routine involves a noise going off somewhere in my covers. A buzzing, beeping situation that feels like a plane is landing. A complete impossibility, obviously, and yet something that seems incredibly disarming at 5:30 in the morning.

Inevitably – and I’ll admit, some mornings this takes me longer than others – I realize it’s not likely that United Airlines is parking Flight 76 underneath my duvet, but rather it’s probably my Blackberry telling me it’s time to wake up and do things like lather my hair in overly priced shampoo and edit yet another book about our 44th president. As such, upon finding said telephone device, I do what any intelligent American would do: I try to begin my day with procrastination.

In most lives this is where the snooze button would rise from the ashes to become the lazy man’s best friend, the beep-quieting Labrador retriever. But Blackberrys don’t come with a terrible amount of options. They are for business people who are supposed to meet deadlines or get their heads chopped off. They don’t want people to snooze. They don’t want visions of sugarplums to dance in people’s heads. Mother Technology only gives you five minutes before exploding into another temper tantrum that implores sleeping professionals to give up beauty for being a broker. And it’s always at this point, upon the second shrill plane landing, that I spend ten minutes cursing my Blackberry and wishing I did something simpler for a profession. Like play Yahtzee. Or alphabetize episodes of Oprah. Anything that would let me demolish this communication device in a bonfire. But since I don’t, I put on my slippers.

The thing about waking up, for me at least, is there is at least a good fifteen minutes where it’s probably a pretty healthy idea for me not to interact with humans. This period usually stems from the point of discovering the “plane” until I have downed my first dark roast. Until then, I am a mute. A horribly irritable, temperamental mute who wants to write a very long, angry letter to Blackberry about their snooze button.  The only thing that can fix me is my happy place: the coffee pot.

Once upon a time, the coffee pot used to be a very sad part of my day. I had one of those miniature situations people pick up right before college. The training bra of coffee makers that only brewed one and a half cups of horrendous coffee you wouldn’t even offer to your Mother in Law. It was puny. And filterless. But it was free, so I chugged on.

Recently, however, in trying to become less of a fraternity house and more like an issue of West Elm, I upgraded. I got a large, silver pot that makes happy beeps and synchronized filtering sounds. I imagine the grounds swimming inside doing coordinated back flips and swan dives. They are very ecstatic in their new home and work furiously to brew me back to happiness while I trundle forward with the last leg of my Morning Marathon Routine: the shower.

The shower is pretty much the most exquisite affair water will ever have with the human body (that is unless you’re a female you and you give birth in one of those pool situations, in which case you are required by parental law to enjoy giving birth in a baby pool more). It’s a built-in-waterfall in the bathroom. A glorious explosion of cleanliness. If someone ever came up to you and said, “Listen, if you want, I’ll build a waterfall in your house. One where you can control the temperature and have enough room to break dance.” Wouldn’t you say yes? Wouldn’t you squeal like that little girl who just found Fido under her tree with a red bow? Yes you would. Don’t even pretend otherwise. You might even pee your pants.

And this is where the last problem arises. The shower is too ridiculously fantastic. If I could, I might stay in there all day long. I might install an Easy Bake Oven and watch Netflix by projecting movies on the tile. I might use loofas as pillows and strongly consider having Steve Jobs create an iWater. But one can’t stay in a shower all day. If that happened, I would surely wrinkle out to the size of a beached whale and Al Gore would write me a nasty letter telling me I’m responsible for global warming. I have to cap my water pleasure at fifteen minutes for fear of emptying the Atlantic Ocean into my break-danceable shower. That, and at some point I really must start working. After all, synchronized coffee beans, hell-bent Blackberrys, and waterfall showers don’t pay for themselves.

BANISHMENT 4: Believing needles are only found in haystacks

About four weeks ago, I lost one of my favorite gloves – one of those fantastic transvestite breeds that couldn’t quite decide if it was a glove or a mitten. It was buttoned and black and pretty much the coolest apparel item I have ever purchased for less than $10 in my entire life.

Losing it was a very, very sad occasion not only because I was immediately less trendy, but also because A) It was the middle of winter and my fingers were immediately stranded in loneliness and sub-zero degree temperatures, B) I only had one pair of gloves to begin with so no other pair could pinch hit, and C) I am my father’s daughter and do not believe I should get new things when I’ve been irresponsible with my old ones. For the rest of winter, I knew I’d be putting myself in glove timeout, showing my freezing fingers that they could no longer be so lax with their knitted homes.

For weeks after the loss, the other glove was so upset that it sat on my counter without its twin, crying for very long, awkward stretches of time. Every time I walked into the kitchen to do something like eat an apple or boil a crab, I immediately became distracted by the wailing transvestite glove.  I wanted so desperately to find it a replacement. Like those parents who buy substitute goldfish for their children before they notice Flipper has prematurely floated to the surface. But my glove was special. It was a mix breed. Half cashmere, half cotton. And it had been purchased at an outlet – where items go when their species is dwindling. To find a replacement would simply be silly. Impossible even. Only the real thing would do and the real thing was likely, at that point, suffering a slow, severe death on a street corner next to druggies and homeless, grocery-cart pushing men. I knew I had to bury the lone glove in the junk drawer and move on.

Oh me of little faith.

This morning, long after I had stashed all hopes aside in a drawer with receipts, matchboxes and un-retractable measuring tape, something incredible happened. I was walking outside in the drizzly morning, carrying a large, heavy box to set in the front seat of my car, when - klutz that I am - I dropped my keys in the raining street. Bending awkwardly down like a pregnant woman to pick them up, I saw something peculiar. And yet so familiar. There underneath the tire of my car, next to my freshly dropped keys, was a very soggy, very lonely, very frostbitten glove that looked as though it had been in a UFC fight with a tree branch. There was no mistaking it. It was my long lost friend. I felt like screaming with excitement.

Welcome home prodigal son!

I took the glove very carefully inside, being sure not to further upset any internal injuries it suffered during its stay in the elements, and immediately gave it a hot bath to remove it's newly acquired accessories of tree bark and leaves. It took to the bath very kindly and is currently resting, being visited by its long lost twin that is thrilled to see it come home. Whether or not the glove will make a full recovery is yet to be determined. It suffered severe emotional and physical distress and will likely need extensive therapy over the coming months. But I am hopeful that by next winter season, it will once again be fully operational as a transvestite winter apparel item that serves as a knitted home for my hands. Frostbitten fingers crossed.

BANISHMENT 3: Believing I Won't be an Accidental Arsonist

Yesterday afternoon I made a very important addition to my front room decor. It’s bold and simple and would certainly be the centerpiece of my feng shui should I ever be the kind of person who had such a thing. It was even cheap, which sort of makes me feel like a million dollars. And if not quite a million, at least 73.

Now I know what you’re thinking. You want to know what it is. More importantly, you want to know where to get one. But before you continue down your jealous spiral of having a covetous, sinful breakdown, I should probably tell you that it isn’t anything terribly exciting. Like a La-Z-Boy with cup holders. Or dimly romantic, like recessed lighting. Or even terribly Marry Poppins, like a coat rack. Rather, it’s a highly important and slightly condescending piece of paper, compliments of HP Photosmart Premium #1. It’s my 95 Theses. Only I’m not Martin Luther, it only contains 22 words, and I have considerable doubts that contents of said paper will do anything to spur on a protestant reformation.  But you can judge for yourself:

Dear Megan,

Please remember to turn the oven off when you leave the house.

Sincerely,
Your objects that will surely burn and perish

Now I know what you’re thinking even more: what the bloody hell is wrong with this person. Why would she need a forged note from kitchen appliances unless she has an almost unhealthy obsession with The Brave Little Toaster? – which I do.

But the truth is. I have a terrible problem. Which I will blame entirely on my mother. And that problem is that I believe I can remember everything when I can in fact remember nothing. My car keys have legs. My remotes can teleport. And my oven has the tendency to turn onto a “broil” setting whenever it gets temperamental, which is too terribly often.

Case in point: I came home yesterday afternoon – which is a pretty typical thing that I do – and I put the key in the lock, manhandled the groceries, and butt-shoved open the door (which is a fantastic move by the way) only to find, upon crossing the threshold, that my house felt sort of like New Orleans had just eaten a box of Hot Tamales. Right before jumping into a vat of hot coals and profanity. This was troubling as it was the fourth time this week my house has felt as such.

What does this say about me? Other than that I cook a lot. And that chances are, if I forget to turn the oven off, I probably forget to include crucial ingredients in my recipes. Like baking powder. And vanilla. And cocaine.

I think it mostly says what I have been trying to deny all along: it’s not that I have appliances that come to life (too bad), it’s that my remembering skills are shoddier than the man’s down the street in the nursing home. My memory was held at gunpoint and instead of fighting back, it wet its pants. As such, for lent I can only give up the facade of having an acrobatic mind at the age of 24 and must start posting warnings around the home to save all from destruction. Coming next: Pee here.

BANISHMENT 2: Understanding the Bowling Ball Syndrome

There are a number of things that seem very natural to crave. Things like ice cream, Billy Reid jackets, and David Beckham pantless. But never on that list would I ever have expected the offspring affection - the desire to be sperminated, grow to the size of a reasonably fashionable camel hump, then pop out a screaming, wailing, non-talking, always sobbing creature that takes your money and your milk.

But something happens to women in their mid-twenties to thirties where they see drooling creatures in corduroy and have the innate desire to lavish said creatures with hugs, kisses, and excessively expensive Blues Clues toys. They see other pregnant women who look sweaty with their built-in-bowling balls and mistake perspiration for a healthy glow. They begin, heaven knows why, to want the bowling balls for themselves, along with the pants with elastic waistlines, the shooting back pains, and the doctor's orders to immediately stop with the drinking, smoking, and heroine shooting.

For most of my life I've been able to avoid the offspring craving, attributing its rise to women who are (a) bored, or (b) needing a 'legitimate' excuse to quit working. I once tried babysitting, but only stuck with it as long as I did thanks to the free food and satellite television. But lately I see small, non-screaming children, and I have the desire to steal them. To put them in my pocket, make a break for the door, and then play tea party for about two hours or until said-child wets her pants and must be returned to her mother for cleansing. I see small overalls and suspenders, tiny toboggans, and hipster kids boots and I immediately want to go and clothe the nearsest toddler in today's overly-priced fashions.

The non-shocking truth is I'm currently, in no remote way, equipped to be a mother. That shiznit is on severe lock down because if I were to inherit a squirly-wirly today, he/she (and chances are it'll be a 'he' because God knows there's no way I could survive  all that pink) would grow up drinking coffee and watching too many episodes of Californication. He'd sleep in the bathtub, watch local music in moderately smoky venues, and find his only perk in life to be that he grew up well dressed.

But these feelings of Bowling Ball Syndrome, while entirely fleeting, are an indicator of something shocking: I do have a baby maker and it's ready - albeit not for another 5, 10, 15 years - to be used. But it's there. It's warming up and having awkward wet dreams about the sandbox.

BANISHMENT 1: The Everyday "I Love You"

I sat down at the keyboard this morning with my steaming Good Morning coffee mug, a bowl of Lucky Charms, and the somewhat selfless intention of writing my boyfriend, heretofore referred to as Handsome Thunder, a fantastically sappy email about how much I liked his eyes and his big strapping muscles and all sorts of other body parts one shouldn't mention during the fasting season of Lent.

But as the black roast hit the back of my throat and my fingers hit the keys, I began to realize that this all feels absurdly familiar. Deja vu of Love Letter Writers Anonymous.

You are wonderful! I can't imagine life without you! Can we name our firstborn Apple Suri Gumdrop? And the incredible, but cursed three letter symphony of 'I Love You.'

I reread the start of my email and I'm nearly certain the flowers on my windowsill (for yes, I am the kind of girl who has flowers and a sill) all but burst into a grand chorus of "The Way You Look Tonight." The marshmallows in my bowl looked up in beat, batting their puffy eyes, all eager and drowning in sappy, fake pastel-colored milk. And my coffee, typically so obedient and dapper, foamed up hearts in its froth and tickled my nose with its unheard of sultry steam. I wanted, at once, to vomit. It was all so despicably cliche.

I remember the first time I said 'I love you' to Handsome Thunder. They were very scary words that acted commonly like an abused pup at the shelter, backing up into the corner until they were absolutely prodded, practically forced out. But when I said them, when I finally said them, it was no-bullshit Mel Gibson in Braveheart. I meant serious, intense business. Nothing about the words then foamed, danced or asked to have any sort of towels monogrammed with future initials. Saying 'I love you' was a necessity. Words that absolutely had to come out under threat of a broken esophagus. But the 'I love you' I was using this morning, the 57 billionth 'I love you' of our lifetime, felt so boring. So predictable. So lifeless. Less sincere than OJ Simpson on trial.

I immediately, and without hesitation, pressed a prolonged delete. Letters flew back into cyberspace at warp speed and I was left with a blinking cursor and an unwritten email to Handsome Thunder. I love him. Yes, of course. This is an easy answer. But love is much more valuable as an action item than a phrase one hears on repeat at the end of every phone call or as a precursor to every walk out the door. Saying the-three-little-words with such complacency risked having a very valuable, precious sentiment sound akin to, "Hello, and welcome to Movie Phone." And no one, not even Hugh Hefner, can stand that.

As my marshmallows danced and my coffee seethed, I realized  that the thing I should give up for lent, before I give up my wine, sailor tongue, or addiction to the Sundance Catalog, should be the everyday 'I love you.' Those three-little-words have gotten way too out of hand. They've become Martha Stewart at Christmas. Too many darn garnishes and tinsel. Trees that practically sprout glitter. What I want, what I really, really want, is just the real bare necessities. The 'I love you' akin to axing down your own pine tree in the forest and staking it up in the family room, it's rough, wintery edges exposed for all to see and stare. It might not be pretty or typical, but there will never be a doubt that it's authentic. And it will certainly never lose its magic.